Alfred Loves His Daddy
by qichis
Summary: Their teeth clack almost painfully and Arthur's whole torso just tenses—he isn't sure what to do, how to respond, and he just… freezes, doing nothing, absolutely nothing at all, while Alfred's lips press hard against his own. 2P, incest


Arthur frowns at the brown smudge of teriyaki on his thumb, wipes it onto his apron. He only hopes it isn't indicative of any further mess! He's _rushing_, is the problem, because Alfred will be home soon—from college, dropping by for the weekend like he hasn't done in months, always choosing instead to stay on campus and study (to _party_, Arthur knows, but it's easier not to worry if he doesn't think about it).

And for all his boy makes him fret and fuss over his well-being, he supposes he has to admit he's quite exceeded his old man in the area of health.

Ever since he found his hobby in baking, Arthur hasn't once let himself run out of the staples: flour, eggs, sugar, chocolate chips, multicolored star-shaped sprinkles… In his house there's always something baking, some recipe stuck up magnetically on the fridge, some odd flavor to try or new exciting ingredient to purchase! Arthur's excited by cakes and cookies and desserts—and he's really complete pants at anything else.

But Alfred's coming over, staying two days which is _six_ meals, so Arthur has to try his absolute best. It wouldn't be _right_ for him to let his son down. That's not what fathers are for!

This is his third attempt at making some sort of vegetable stir-fry; the first time it'd been hideously salty, the second he managed to burn it, and now… well.

Now the doorbell's ringing.

Arthur frets, glancing at the stovetop, but oh… it'll be fine if he leaves it for a second; the door's only right there! He hurries over, clicking it quickly unlocked and letting Alfred in. "Hi, sorry, have to go right back!"

He turns and runs back up, belatedly realizes Alfred's probably brought a bag, and runs right back to the door. "Alfred, goodness, I'm so sorry—here, let me take that! Do take off your coat and um—I'll have the stir-fry ready in just a minute, I… think!" He _hoped_, anyway. "Make yourself—oh this is your home. Well, ah… you know," Arthur finally decided, skittering back to the food.

There's the sound of the old, worn couch creaking as Alfred undoubtedly flops horizontally across its entire length, as he's wont to do. Arthur finds himself smiling at the thought.

It's just so good to have his son in the walls of his home again. He misses him, when he's gone, he really does.

"Hey, Dad?"

Ah—he's just placing the vegetables in their sauce onto plates, so tells Alfred to wait a moment, before peeking his head out the door. "Yes?"

Alfred looks… reluctant, which is something he almost _never_ looks. "It's 10 in the morning."

"…yes?"

"Why did you make stir-fry at 10 in the morning?"

Arthur hesitates, mouth open in a small _o_, then gently excuses himself to the room in the house furthest from Alfred. He stays there for a couple moments and, of course, deposits seventy-five cents in the swear jar before he comes back out to the living room. "I-I, I'm so sorry, Alfred, I wasn't thinking; I looked up vegetarian recipes because goodness _I_ certainly didn't know any, and that was the first one that sounded really good and didn't have tofu because every man has his limits, I'll tolerate your lifestyle to a point but _really_, a-and I just… I rushed and I didn't think and—"

He hadn't noticed Alfred get up, but suddenly he _was_ up, standing in front of Arthur and patting his shoulder. "Hush up, pops, it's better than cupcakes."

Arthur can't help the huge smile that bursts its way onto his face. "I wish you wouldn't call me that but oh, goodness, I—thank you, Alfred."

"Yeah, yeah, sure… Dad. I can eat stir-fry at 10, whatever, I've done worse pretty much every Sunday morning."

What does that mean—Arthur shakes his head, electing, again, not to think about whatever shenanigans it is that his boy gets up to when he's away. It's not worth it to fret when he knows, really, that Alfred has control of himself. He's a good sort, in the end. "Alfred?"

"Huh?"

"I, I really am proud of you, you know." Arthur pauses, because he isn't entirely sure what to say or how to go about this, but… it's important that it's said. "You always do make me worry for you, but you've made your way so far!"

"Uh," Alfred says, fidgeting, "Dad, c'mon…"

But Arthur doesn't 'come on,' he keeps at it, because he wants Alfred to know and understand just how much he's appreciated! This whole—_everything_, really, there isn't a neat way of encompassing it in words like 'family' or 'home life' because they don't explain the immensity of raising his boys alone, watching them come home bruised and bleeding and knowing it's only about half likely that they did it to each other, watching them grow and fill out men's bodies and become strong, independent… There's no easy way to explain that.

He's grasping at straws, though. He's _trying_, nonetheless, to explain. He wants Alfred to know how glad he is to be his dad. "You just take things like—like, well, like me and my getting confused in stride and move on past it, and I… you're a good boy, Alfred." Arthur smiles, suffused with pride. "You are."

"Geez, Dad, calm down, don't make it gay…"

He—what?! "Alfred!" He's still happy, but his eyebrows furrow in a bit of a grump. "Alfred! Please! I'm simply trying to compliment you, you're my _boy_, that's highly inappropriate and I don't appreciate it!"

Whatever he expected Alfred's response to be, it certainly wasn't a certain slump to his shoulders and a downcast look to his eyes. He looks… hurt, like Arthur's words stung him somewhere deep, and he's got no clue what it could mean. He hadn't said anything—hurtful—_did_ he? Was he too short with him? Oh no no _no_…

Arthur's heart pangs for Alfred. His boy.

"Alfred, I… what's wrong?"

He doesn't get an answer, not really. Alfred takes a moment, then shrugs almost angrily. "I, whatever, it doesn't fucking matter," and Arthur flinches at the curse but he isn't heartless enough to bring up the quarter Alfred now owes to the jar, isn't that cruel. No, he's… scared. "Forget it."

Arthur is so scared that there's something really wrong here. "I, I can't! I can't let my boy look so hurt!"

Alfred tugs roughly on his shirt; Arthur yelps and goes tumbling forward, but doesn't have the chance to right himself before… oh… his eyes snap widely open as his son crushes their mouths together. Their teeth clack almost painfully and Arthur's whole torso just _tenses_—he isn't sure what to do, how to respond, and he just… freezes, doing nothing, absolutely nothing at all, while Alfred's lips press hard against his own.

Perhaps he's shortcircuited. That seems the most apt way to explain how his senses all feel dulled, how he can't do anything but stare blankly ahead. Ah. He feels he might fall over, but he doesn't, of course—

When he finally refocuses, Alfred is muttering to himself. He's angry, his tone all irritated and bitter like Arthur remembers from scraped knees and lost softball games, and… and, ah, Arthur finds he can't bring himself to feel anything but fond affection for his darling son. "Is that all?"

"…huh?"

Arthur's smiling wide; he couldn't stop his mouth turning up at the edges even if he'd wanted to. He laughs, a little, before explaining, "you'll have to do much worse than that to get your old dad mad at you, Alfie!"

With a frown, Alfred begins to protest: "I wish you wouldn't call me that—" but Arthur silences the argument with another kiss.

It's better, this time, less rough and rushed. Arthur's happy to loop his arms around Alfred's waist, holding on loosely. They just sort of smush their lips together awhile with mouths closed. Alfred's surprisingly capable of being rather gentle and kind; realizing that makes Arthur feel _good_, really honestly wonderful, for this strong caring boy he's raised.

In time, they pull apart from each other. Arthur's yet to stop smiling.

"Dad, shit, I…" Alfred's staring at the ground. His cheeks have reddened. "Don't you think this is fucked up?"

"Ah!"

Alfred laughs sharp and loud. "Sorry. Quarter. Got it. I just—you're… not grossed out? This is okay?"

"I," he stammers, tucking a flyaway hair behind his ear, "I don't mind anything that makes you happy. I-I suppose I'm not really against it so if it's what you want then it's not… I mean, I… I realize I should care but I don't feel hurt or angry or anything, not at all, and really you don't deserve to be punished for—being honest, I'm not going to do that just because it feels like I'm meant to, I, did you know you're very good at kissing, actually, because—"

"Dad."

"Huh? Yes? What?"

He's—close, again, out of nowhere. "Shut _up_." And any protest he _could've_ made to that dies away because they're kissing again and—maybe he's imparted more on his son than he thinks he has, really.

It's neither rough nor gentle the third go around. Alfred's fast to introduce tongues into the equation, though, pressing himself flush against his dad's front and reaching around to grab his behind; Arthur blushes vaguely but isn't about to stop him, really, especially not considering the way the play of their mouths against each other is heating his whole body.

Alfred's more hurried with him than he expects; it's not very long into the kiss that he has hands in his hair, tugging and pulling and mussing it all up, and Arthur makes a quick mental note to fix that later, if he doesn't forget, which—all things considered—he very well might. 'Things' in question being the tense heat spreading to his face and his chest because of Alfred's hands moving lower and ghosting along his sides. He squeaks in surprise as his son doesn't stop or slow, just slips under Arthur's shirt and smooths the palms of his hands (they're warm, and they spread their warmth through him) up Arthur's chest.

"Mmn," Arthur murmurs, some sort of moan caught up in the tongue-tied arousal which is making him feel all… buzzy, disoriented, like he can't think right—well, can't think right about anything that isn't his son's hands. "Alfred—"

A finger brushes across his nipple, comes back, swirls around it. "Hush up, Dad. I got this."

The confidence in Alfred's voice shoos away the (admittedly small) part of Arthur's mind that had surfaced at that, wanting to ask questions about sobriety and protection and safety, but oh, Alfred's a good boy—such a good boy—Arthur doesn't worry about it; it's so much easier not to worry…

He whines a little when Alfred's hands sink out of his shirt, but then it's, it's alright, because he's using them to tug the shirt up and—and then off, once there's no more up to be achieved.

Arthur's tongue darts out to wet his lips, a stall for time: he stands half-nude in front of his own son, and…

Well, where they've gotten so far, all the guilt is being swiftly pushed under the rug by the much more urgent and pressing desire to get Alfred just as exposed as he is, so Arthur reaches up himself and fiddles open each button of his boy's shirt. It's a strange rush of nostalgia, almost, but _inverted_, like someone's gotten into the family photo album and replaced half the pictures with dirty drawings: taking off his son's clothes, undressing him, making him naked.

Well. Halfway, at least, but then as soon as Arthur's got the unbuttons undone and Alfred tosses the shirt off (it falls to the floor and he has to muffle a _tsk_) Alfred's also loosening and stepping out of his jeans and boxers as well, so, so there's that, and—

—and now _Arthur's_ more clothed than _Alfred_ is, which won't do either, so with hands still slightly shaky from performance anxiety or maybe just the fearful knowledge that _he wants his son inside him_, he works the rest of his clothes off too, which…

Perhaps he's shortcircuited again. Alfred is standing fully exposed in front of him and, ooh, he can't keep his eyes off him. All of him, every part.

Some in particular.

He's being backed up, then, maneuvered toward the couch, more likely than not because it's the closest piece of furniture. He isn't about to argue with the way Alfred keeps stepping confidently forward, as if he's perfectly assured Arthur will continue back and back until—_oof_, the backs of his knees hit the couch and he falls onto its cushions, legs automatically spreading.

Alfred's breathing through his mouth. Not quite panting, but close, and it makes his—his, um—well, he's very interested by that. "Alfred."

"Want you, Dad," his boy breathes, "I want you."

Alfred starts to climb over him, using the couch to position his limbs on either side of his old man, and Arthur lets him do that because, well, because he wants this too, because he's open-mouthed and breathing hard just like his son. Because he's hard now, undeniably so, and it's much too late to pretend this hasn't happened. (Not that either of them want to. Not at all.)

They're kissing again, but paying much less attention to it than Alfred's hands gripping Arthur's bare sides, rubbing, making him altogether aware of the swell of arousal between his legs, just inches from his son's hands.

He groans low in his throat. The kiss muffles it, but it's still an undeniable sound of want.

Arthur feels greedy, desperate: his son is here now and he wants him, wants him nearer and closer and deeper, wants physical proof of this love in the way Alfred would spread him open and fit inside. His legs splay further apart and wrap around Alfred's back, hooking around his waist—that stops the kiss, unexpectedly.

"Gotta," Alfred manages after a quiet second, "gotta get to my coat. Gotta—condoms, lube."

"A-ah." Right. His legs unhook to let Alfred go. Somehow the stark reality of the _products_ needed for them to do this makes Arthur a little bit embarrassed; he's blushing now, and not just from being completely turned on. Alfred hurries right back with the things and the press of slick fingers against him is like a contract sealed.

His son is carefully slow, softening him and spreading him open. Arthur practically feels as if he's melting into the couch cushions. Soon he's relaxed enough, and needy enough, that he shoos Alfred's hand away with a nudge of his foot and—

It's a moment of waiting, watching Alfred navigate the condom—

And Arthur hitches his breath, pulling his own legs up further to make the angle easier as his boy presses in. Slowly, carefully, like he's made of absolute porcelain; Alfred holds when he bottoms out, waiting for a signal, and doesn't move until Arthur nods.

He lets out the breath he'd forgotten he was holding, letting Alfred move in and out of him as he likes. He never fully leaves him, just jerks back and forth, moving along perfectly. Arthur's yelling and gasping within moments and, well, now he supposes Alfred's learned something neither of them had ever thought he would: Arthur's loud, incredibly so. He always has been, and Alfred's quickening movements don't at all inspire him to change his ways. He cries out everything he can think of, which isn't much: _Alfred, Alfred, oh, oh my boy is so good to me, yes_, his hand shooting out to clasp Alfred's shoulderblade and _squeeze_, letting him know how good this feels, how proud he is.

They move too fast to last very long, in the end. With Alfred rutting perfectly into him and Arthur shoving his hips down to meet him in opposite rhythm, it's minutes before they've both tensed and c—finished, Arthur corrects. _Finished_.

"Alfred," he croons, hand still petting his son's back. It's sweat-slick now, and that's a reminder. "I… mm."

Alfred chuckles softly. "Yeah. Me too."

They're finished, for now, but the way Alfred slumps warmly against him and doesn't move to rise tells Arthur that really, he'll probably have company for more weekends than he'd ever dared to hope.

All that's left to hope for is that the stir-fry tastes alright reheated.


End file.
